Homecoming
by CitySleep
Summary: It had been easy killing Tom Riddle. The diary, however, was another story. (Oneshot, for now)


Killing Tom Riddle had been surprisingly easy.

Afterall, he'd been a sixteen year old boy and she'd lived through a war, spearheaded its resistance.

The diary though.

The _fucking_ diary.

Ginny could survive a war, be thrown back in time, survive the snake pits of Slytherin, murder the head boy and get away with it- but she couldn't get that loathsome book out of her life.

She'd spent a small fortune- well, Abraxas' fortune- on basilisk fangs, all which turned out to be fakes. The Sorting Hat had stubbornly refused to produce anything for her except the most mundane of rhymes. She'd even tried to set the bloody thing on fire, and it had sat there, silently judging her useless efforts.

A part of her wanted to abandon the bloody book somewhere in the woods, bury it deep and hope no one would ever stumble across it. But she'd come too far, worked too hard for something as banal as a book to bring it all crashing down again.

So Ginny kept the diary. She let it gather dust at the bottom of her Hogwarts trunk. Years passed, and she could very nearly forget that she was essentially keeping a piece of Voldemort's soul hostage under a pile of dirty knickers. Sometimes it made her laugh. Sometimes it made her sick. But she took comfort in watching her schoolmates grow into adults that weren't being shepherded by a raging psychopath, adults that already seemed significantly more tempered now that their ringleader was gone. There were a few exceptions of course, but the majority seemed to shed their blood prejudices so as to pursue political careers. The defeat of Grindelwald at the hands of Dumbledore had brought on a massive change in attitudes regarding muggleborns. No one wanted to risk being branded a sympathiser, especially since the Ministry was continuing to investigate and imprison anyone who'd had any ties with the dark wizard.

All in all, life was good, if not shockingly normal. As someone who'd had a decidedly un-normal life since she was eleven, Ginny often felt uncomfortable and out of place, as if she'd constantly shown up at the wrong house for a party, but she figured such was the cost of time travel.

After graduation, she even let Abraxas court her. Unlike his grandson, he was charming, quite handsome and wickedly funny. She liked his sharp humour and the confident way he carried himself that had nothing to do with his substantial wealth.

He proposed nine months later and they were married the following spring. It was a lavish ceremony, and if anyone had any comments about the bride's disadvantaged background they kept mum, instead commenting on her beauty and wonderful academic career.

They spent a few years relatively happy, enjoying the comfort of two people who get along well and have a satisfying sex life, without any of the dramatics usually borne out of actual passion. It was perfectly fine, and Ginny was sure it would have carried on being perfectly fine if Abraxas hadn't made an innocuous comment on the eve of her 24th birthday.

"You don't look a day over sixteen, my darling. If I didn't know better I'd think you were dabbling in the Dark Arts."

He'd winked slyly at her and refilled her wine glass as she'd smiled blandly, even though her stomach had dropped. It had started then, the whispers, but she'd been able to stave off the troubling idea for another few years until she'd looked in the mirror and been forced to accept the truth.

Ginny Malfoy, née Weasley, was not aging.

She did not look like an adult who kept their youthful glow. She looked like a sixteen year old girl child. The curves of her face still held a sliver of baby fat. Her skin was untouched by lines. Her body still held the strange hard edges of someone who'd grown very quickly in a short span of time.

"Never again." She had whispered to herself so many times during different lifetimes. It had been a lifeline, a crucifix she held out against the beautiful devil that haunted her dreams.

But she had to know.

It was curiosity, not desperation, that drove Ginny to dip her quill to the weathered pages of Tom Riddle's diary.

I need to see you.

As it had been before, she was pulled into his world almost instantaneously. She didn't even have time to find her footing before a hand gripped her shoulder hard and spun-

"So you're the one who's been causing me so much trouble."

Ginny knew the cold fury simmering beneath those words should have terrified her. But she couldn't stop staring at his face.

This was not the Tom Riddle of her dreams.

This was not the boy she had so easily disposed of at school.

This was a man.

A man who looked to be somewhere in his late twenties.

She couldn't stop a small "o" of shock forming on her lips. Tom- Voldemort - whichever incarnation this man was- flicked his eyes over his face, irritated at her lack of response.

" I do admit I expected more than some _schoolgirl._ " He nearly spat, which Ginny found hysterically funny considering he'd said nearly the same thing to her as a schoolboy right before she'd murdered him.

"I'm not." He quirked an eyebrow at her. She licked her lips, weighing her next words very carefully. "I'm twenty-seven."

She watched his face as his eyebrows drew together in confusion and then raised in understanding. He regarded her differently, appraising her.

"Interesting." He drawled, dragging his eyes up her body. "Very, _very_ interesting."


End file.
